


Merge

by JolinarJackson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:17:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JolinarJackson/pseuds/JolinarJackson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merges between anchors and empaths don't happen accidentally. Sherlock and John know that … until they come out of a traumatic experience merged for life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keerawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/gifts).



> Setting: after A Scandal In Belgravia  
> Author's Note: Written for holmestice and keerawa, who wished for a lot of things that I like as well. As a consequence, it was insanely hard to settle on something to write. I hope I picked something you like.  
> Beta: By tardisjournal, as always super-fast and super-helpful! :)

_John didn't remember many things that happened that night very clearly. What he remembered was Sherlock's deduction, arriving at the abandoned power plant, splitting up to cover more ground and maybe find the woman the serial killer had abducted faster … he remembered the sharp pain of being hit over the head … he remembered the stench and foul taste of the gag and the cable binder digging into the flesh of his wrists ... he definitely remembered lying on the cold concrete floor, listening to Sherlock's steps getting closer, and Tommy Dorning straddling his legs, leaning over him with a manic glint in his dark eyes reflected off the blade of the scalpel he was holding, the scalpel he'd used on six men and women with deadly success … he would never forget Sherlock's steps stopping abruptly when he entered the room and found John with a blade nicking the skin of his throat._

_**Anger, irritation, fear** _

_John couldn't see him – the door being somewhere behind him – but Sherlock's emotions cut through him like a knife. Somewhere, distantly, he was aware that since he wasn't an empath, he shouldn't be aware of Sherlock's feelings that much, but in that moment, it didn't even cross his mind._

_The scalpel slid closer to his jugular vein teasingly and John's body reacted instinctively, trying to escape. His shoulders tensed against Tommy's arm that kept them pressed to the floor and his legs bent, feet looking for leverage on the concrete, his hips moving up to ease the pressure Tommy was exerting on his chest. Tommy just chuckled darkly and didn't even look at John, his eyes riveted on Sherlock._

_John was just another anchor ready to be killed by this deranged empath. He was nothing more than flesh and bone and a representation of the abuse Tommy had suffered over years at the hands of the anchor he'd been married to – his first victim Lilly._

_John wasn't a person._

_Sherlock, on the other hand, Tommy could relate to. Since Sherlock had started working the case, since the newspapers had announced that 'Hat-Man and Robin' were after the serial killer, Tommy had dedicated his victims to Sherlock, leaving little notes and riddles._

_And now this … he'd been awaiting for them, biding his time … to do what?_

_John strained against Tommy's hold again, the plastic of the cable binder cutting into his wrists, and Tommy pressed the blade harder against John's throat, forcing him to lie still. ”Ah, ah!” he said softly with a mock-reprimanding smile. He still wasn't looking at John, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. ”Hold still now. Or this could hurt.” He pressed the scalpel even closer, forcing John to move his head back, leaving his throat vulnerable._

_**Terror** _

_John closed his eyes, forcing the nausea down. Sherlock's emotions were clear, sharp-edged, unbearable almost … this shouldn't be possible._

_”Isn't this precious?” Tommy asked._

_”Let him go,” Sherlock answered grimly._

_**Determination** _

_”Why?” Tommy asked. ”Give me an answer that will convince me. An answer worthy of the great Sherlock Holmes.”_

_Sherlock's voice was eerily calm when he replied, ”Because you killed too many anchors already.”_

_Tommy laughed. ”Not good enough.”…_

John woke up, panting and sweating and uttering a strangled scream. He needed a moment to orient himself, to realize that he was in Baker Street, in his room … safe. 

He took a few deep breaths, trying to get his breathing under control, his frantically-beating heart forming a staccato rhythm against his chest. His shaking fingers found his throat, touching the healing, shallow cuts the scalpel had left there. 

It was almost silent, just his own breathing and the occasional car driving down the quiet street to be heard. No hurried steps from downstairs, no violin, no telly or the clinking of lab equipment. 

John sat up a little straighter and closed his eyes, focussing, searching out the merge. It came to him so naturally already, even though it had formed only a few days ago – with a blade against John's throat and Sherlock's knees hitting the concrete. 

Before that night, John had only ever heard about merges. They weren't rare by any standard. Empaths and anchors had formed bonds for centuries and science as well as philosophy had tried to explain them just as long. In the end, everyone was stumped as to how exactly the merges were formed. The only thing that was for sure was that just empaths and anchors could relate to each other in that way. Neutrals who were neither empaths nor anchors were excluded. 

The merge was often described as the highest form of intimacy and seen as the ideal result of a good marriage, even though not every merged couple was romantically involved. There were siblings who merged – mostly twins – and it had happened that lifelong friends reached that point. 

One thing was for sure: Merges didn't happen by accident. Shouldn't. 

And yet … 

John sought out Sherlock almost instinctively. It was like stepping into a dark room and finding the only source of light: Sherlock's emotions. He was easy for John to find, because he'd never merged with anyone before. There was only one light glowing for him. 

_**Awake, frustrated, longing for a cigarette** _

John didn't think that he would be able to fall asleep again, so he heaved himself out of bed with a sigh and went downstairs. Sherlock was huddled on the couch in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown, lying on his side facing the backrest with his legs drawn as close to his chest as he could. He didn't react when John entered, but John felt his feelings shift, adding new ones. 

_**Annoyance, betrayal** _

He let the silence hang for a moment and then asked, ”Still not talking to me, then?”

They hadn't talked in three days – since it had happened. Sherlock hadn't looked at him properly for the same amount of time. It was absurd. Their friendship had reached the strongest stage possible and here they were: Sherlock sulking on the couch as if John had insulted him and John reduced to quips and throw-away remarks to cover up how much it irked that he didn't know why ...

He crossed to the kitchen, shivering in the cold night breeze coming in through the open windows. ”Tea?” he called into the lounge, not expecting an answer. The reaction he wanted he got, though. 

_**Pleasure** _

”That's a yes,” he muttered. He put on the kettle and found two clean mugs for them, dropping tea bags into them. ”I did some research. Breaking a merge is close to impossible. At least that's what they think. It's not something they spent a lot of resources on, though, since people generally don't want to break a merge.”

_**Annoyance** _

The kettle clicked off and John poured the water. ”I know it's not what you want to hear, but we might be stuck for a while.” He added a splash of milk and two spoons of sugar to Sherlock's tea and stirred milk into his own, then he returned to the lounge. Sherlock was still on the couch, motionless, his messy curls hiding every hint of his facial expression. John set Sherlock's mug down on the coffee table and then hovered for a moment. 

“Listen ...” He took a breath. ”It's not what I wanted, either. I certainly didn't expect it.”

There was no reaction.

”Sherlock,” John said softly. ”Please. We need to talk about this.” He sat on the coffee table. ”You know it doesn't make any sense to punish _me_ , right? Merges are started by empaths.”

Sherlock's shoulders tensed. 

_**Rage … suppressed** _

”I'm not angry,” John hurried to assure him. ”I'm looking for a solution here, Sherlock.” He forced himself to remain calm, digging into his ability as an anchor to blank feelings out and deal with them later – an ability that was designed to give the empaths they were merged with a safe haven to seek out when the world got too much. 

When John likened his own gift to stepping into a dark room and finding the single lamp representing Sherlock's feelings, then he had to liken an empath's ability to standing in that room and having every single lamp turned on constantly, glaringly bright and blinding. 

Anchors felt their empaths' emotions, empaths felt everyone's. 

It was what made Sherlock good at his profession; it was also what made him bad at social interaction because somehow, along the way, Sherlock had learned to use his ability as a weapon only. As a wall to keep people out. The betrayal he felt towards John right now was founded on an old wound, a deeper betrayal. That much, John could feel and safely assume.

It was the reason he remained so calm.

”Let's talk in the morning, yeah?” he said. ”Drink your tea and have some toast. You haven't moved from this couch since yesterday.”

He got up and went back to his bedroom, blanking out the merge for the rest of night.

***

“Have some more, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said and served John another bowl of her chicken soup.

He smiled at her. ”You're an angel, Mrs. Hudson.” The scent of the broth and meat made him realize how hungry he actually was and it felt quite cosy to eat homemade soup in Mrs. Hudson's little kitchen while the rain drummed against the windows. 

It reminded him of afternoons at his grandmother's house after school. It reminded him of good times.

She sat down in her chair on the opposite side of the table again, picking her knitting back up. ”Can't have you boys starve, bachelors that you are … or were.” She winked at him.

John watched her for a moment with a frown, then he sighed. ”You feel the merge?”

”Old empath like me. I can always tell when people are merged. I'm happy for you.” She nodded at him. ”Take some of that soup for Sherlock later, would you? I've been trying to get him to come down and have some but he's in one of his strops.” She met John's eyes with a teasing grin. ”Probably missed his anchor while you were at work.”

”It wasn't planned,” John said without quite knowing why he chose to say that instead of negating romantic feelings for Sherlock. 

She waved his words off, barely looking up from her knitting. ”It doesn't matter how it happened as long as the two of you are happy now after that awful business with that Mr. Dorning.”

John's hand strayed to his throat subconsciously, rubbing where the blade had cut. ”You're getting the wrong impression. We're not a couple.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. ”Oh, John! You're merged.”

”Can't you feel it?” he asked. ”That we're not … we're not … that.” He shrugged. “It's not even a real merge.”

Mrs. Hudson lowered her knitting to fix him with a stern look. ”My dear, there's only one thing an empath can feel when a merged couple enters the room and that is the connection.” She patted his hand. ”And there is only one kind of merge – either you are or you aren't.”

***

When John arrived upstairs, he found that Sherlock had moved from the couch in the course of the day and had migrated to the kitchen table and his makeshift lab. His black curls were an unruly mess and he didn't even look at John when he entered, but there was a new plate with toast crumbs in the sink and two empty mugs that hadn't been there this morning – John counted that as a success. He put the bowl with soup in the microwave and set the timer. “Mrs. Hudson thinks we're a couple.”

Sherlock stared into his microscope. 

”Everyone will think that.”

_**Annoyance** _

”I know, I know,” John said with a sigh, waving off the wordless complaint. ”I shouldn't care, but you know how it is. You grow up reading all those books and fairy tales and seeing those movies about empaths and anchors merging, and it's always out of love.”

_**Exasperation, disgust** _

The timer dinged and John served Sherlock's soup by setting the bowl down by his elbow, adding a spoon. ”I know it's not the same for us.” He dropped into his chair opposite Sherlock and looked at him for a long moment. Sherlock didn't show any indication of wanting to eat, but the way he kept staring into his microscope, not making notes or even blinking told John that he was just stalling, not really experimenting or watching whatever cell culture was his favourite this week. 

Sherlock wasn't good with this kind of thing – John wasn't much better. It wasn't as if he _wanted_ to talk about the situation, but he knew that there was no way they could continue to ignore what had happened. ”Sherlock, what Tommy did … wasn't good. It was a bad, awful situation.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “I'm getting the feeling that you're not coping.” 

_**Fury … suppressed** _

”I know,” John said, nodding earnestly. ”He got to you. You're … embarrassed and that's okay. Just … what you did for me that night was … good. Very good. I owe you … a lot.” 

Sherlock still didn't show any reaction, but his feelings gave him away. 

_**Elation … suppressed … contentment** _

John smiled sadly. ”I know you didn't want this. You've made your feelings on merges quite clear – not your area – but it's too late now and ...” He shook his head. ”Will you ever talk to me again?”

_**Sadness, betrayal, disgust** _

”Right,” John muttered, swallowing his disappointment. ”Right. I'll go to bed then.” He got up and turned to go, but hesitated at the door. ”I didn't want a merge,” he said. ”But I don't mind. It's fine. It's all fine.”

Sherlock didn't answer, didn't even look at him, didn't so much as twitch. 

John nodded. ”Okay.”

***

_Tommy laughed. ”Not good enough.”…_

_The scalpel pressed in and John whimpered into the gag, instinctual fear paralysing him, his eyes welling with tears because 'Please, God, let me live' and …_

_”Don't!” Sherlock's sharp voice cut through the terror._

_Tommy paused, but the scalpel cut into John's skin and a trickle of blood made its way down to his collar. The feel of it made John' chest heave with panicked breaths and he became slightly dizzy. It took all of his willpower not to pass out._

_Once his vision cleared again, Tommy was looking down at him. ”He likes you. I'm so ...” His expression became pained. ”... disappointed.” He looked up at Sherlock. ”You're just like everybody else! Every other pitiful, mewling little empath!”_

_”You're an empath yourself,” Sherlock replied._

_**Fear, uncertainty** _

_”Yes, but I don't let anchors get to me. I should do you a favour, cut his throat open, let him bleed out.” Tommy snarled. “He's ruining you!”_

_John would have laughed had the situation not been so dire. Sherlock was the most distanced empath he knew. He wasn't interested in anchors at all. More the opposite. John had the feeling that Sherlock quite disliked anchors, which made him wonder, sometimes, why Sherlock chose him as a flatmate and friend._

_**Fear** _

_John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shake off the feeling. He was scared enough on his own, he didn't need Sherlock's emotions heaped onto it as well … something was off … if he could only concentrate …_

_Sherlock's voice cut through his thoughts. ”Don't kill him.”_

_Tommy smiled. The expression made his young face look deranged. ”Beg,” he said. ”If the big Sherlock Holmes is at the end of his rope already,” he added, ”why not cut him down completely?”_

_There was a pause._

_”Beg!” Tommy snapped and the scalpel cut deeper and John screamed into the gag … and there was something ..._

_**Terror, fear, humiliation** _

_… that wasn't John's. He shouldn't be able to feel this! An anchor was only able to use his empathy when … he gasped._

_Tommy was still yelling at Sherlock. ”On your knees and beg for his life! Beg for your anchor's life!”_

_Sherlock wouldn't. The thought of him going down to his knees and actually begging someone not to do something was ridiculous. But Tommy chuckled triumphantly and there was the rustling of clothes and then the sound of something hitting the concrete … John tried to turn, to crane his neck around to see, to confirm … but Tommy was holding him down._

_Then, very softly, Sherlock said, ”Please … don't.”_

_**Humiliation** _

_No, no, no … John swallowed. Was Sherlock even aware what he was doing or was he too panicked? Did he know that he was projecting at John? That he – an empath – was projecting his feelings at John – an anchor?_

_He was offering a merge. All John had to do was accept but he couldn't …_

_Tommy smiled. He climbed off John and grabbed him, roughly turning him around and propping him up against his chest, the scalpel at his throat once more in a perverse embrace from behind. John had squeezed his eyes shut as soon as Tommy had moved him. Sherlock's humiliation and the feeling of betrayal accompanying it were thick enough that John could taste them. If he looked at Sherlock now, established contact ..._

_”Look at him,” Tommy said close to his ear. ”Your little empath bitch.”_

_John kept his eyes closed determinedly._

_”Look at him!”_

John jerked awake. The bedroom was cold and only dimly lit by the street lamps outside, the wind was rattling the windows and he slid deeper under the covers, turning on his side to curl up and calm down. He startled when he saw a shadow at the door. 

Tall, curly-haired and sharp-faced. 

_**Worry, sympathy** _

”Sherlock?” John asked, but Sherlock just turned away and left.

***

The pub was loud, a welcome change to the eerily quiet flat. It was also warm and companionable and everything John needed right now.

Greg set two pints onto the small table John had secured for them in a corner and slid into the seat opposite, one eye on the game showing on the telly, the other on John. “How are you doing?”

”Fine,” John answered. ”Just fine. Why are you asking?”

Greg shrugged, turning to the game fully for a few seconds when the crowd engrossed in it started to yell at something the player with the ball was doing wrong. Greg's eyes lingered on the screen for a few seconds, then they found John's again. ”You're different.”

John grimaced. ”Yeah, well … Sherlock's not doing that great.”

”His pride got a kick, huh?”

”Something along those lines.”

”I took his report,” Greg said gravely. ”Dorning was a sick bastard.”

John was a bit surprised at himself when he heatedly replied, ”He was traumatized by domestic violence from an anchor who had no clue how to treat an empath properly.”

Greg frowned at him in surprise. ”Defending him?”

”No!” 

”Sounds like it, though.” Greg shrugged and sipped his pint.

John bit his lip and ducked his head. ”Empaths usually don't go off the rails like that,” he said. ”Gentle souls and all that.”

Greg chuckled. ”Have you _met_ Sherlock Holmes?”

John snorted. ”Exception to the rule.”

”Well, you would know,” Greg replied, settling back in his chair. Greg was a neutral, one of the reasons why John had agreed to have a pint with him. Greg wouldn't be able to tell that he and Sherlock had merged, wouldn't judge. Greg leaned back in his chair. ”I stand by my judge of character where Dorning is concerned, though. He forced Sherlock to beg for your life. Sherlock actually _did_ beg for your life.”

John stared into his pint. ”I know.”

”It's hard to wrap your head around that kind of thing, I guess,” Greg said, ”but I'm not surprised. He quite likes you.”

John smiled grimly. ”We prefer the same form of stress relief.”

Greg chuckled. ”You're an anchor, John, and he invited you to live with him. Believe me … he likes you.” He shrugged. ”Doesn't think much of anchors. You've seen him around Anderson.”

”We merged,” John said before he could stop himself. 

Greg stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then he leaned forward and spoke just loud enough to be heard over the laughter and jeering at the bar. ”You _merged_?” he asked. ”Are you-”

”No! It just … happened, while he was kneeling there ... begging.” He took a deep breath and brushed a hand through his hair. ”It bothers him, though. He's not talking, just … sulking, experimenting, not even playing his violin.” 

Greg looked at him thoughtfully, his dark eyes sceptical. 

”We're not ...” John swallowed. ”We're not … a couple.” He took a few healthy gulps of his beer before he continued. ”But we merged and it bothers him. I think he wants me gone.”

Greg took a deep breath and let it out, then he calmly answered, ”If you merged, you can't leave. Not for good anyway. A merge lasts for life.”

”I know that!” John snapped. ”I know and it's the worst feeling that … he never merged before, never. He told me. This is like ...” He swallowed. ”He projected and I reacted and … it's like I took advantage.” He shook his head. ”And he hates me for it.”

Greg shook his head. ”I can't imagine that he hates you, maybe he just needs a little distance … and a case.” His eyes lit up with an idea and he pulled out his mobile. ”I'll get him a case, that'll give him the distance … distraction. And it may give the both of you some time to work through this on your own before you can confront it together.” 

John rubbed his forehead, nodding slowly. ”I hope you're right.”

***

When John returned home, Sherlock was gone, following Greg's call to a crime scene that – thankfully – had turned up half an hour ago. 

He stood in the kitchen for a long while, looking at the table and Sherlock's lab equipment. 

At the blood samples labelled _SH_. 

Those hadn't been there when he'd left for work and then to meet Greg. John sighed deeply, gathered the samples up carefully and stowed them away in the fridge. 

Even though the pints he'd had were giving him a slight buzz, he felt like he wouldn't be able to sleep yet, so he settled down in front of the telly.

***

He woke up in the embrace of his armchair when Sherlock returned, banging the door to the flat shut. ”A total waste of my time!”

John blinked at the telly, which was showing something completely different than he remembered, and then watched Sherlock stomp past him into the kitchen. He paused for a second to eye the table and then ripped the fridge door open. 

_**Relief** _

John switched the telly off and cleared his throat, sitting up a bit. ”You caught the killer, then?” he asked, happy enough to hear Sherlock speak to him that he was all too ready to accept it without asking twice. 

Sherlock glowered at him while he got the samples out of the fridge and set them down by his microscope. ”Of course. I guess I have you to thank for that undignified engagement.”

”Me?” John asked because he could stop himself. Of course Sherlock knew.

”Because you asked Lestrade to get me a case.”

John swallowed. ”Technically, that's not correct. He offered.”

_**Annoyance, exasperation** _

”Delightful,” Sherlock commented, shrugging out of his coat and then loosening his scarf before settling in front of the microscope.

John rubbed his tired eyes and glanced at his watch. It was after two in the morning. He really should go and get some proper sleep. ”I was just trying to get you to come out of your shell. You've been quiet.”

Sherlock scoffed, adjusting the dials of the microscope. ”Have you ever considered that there might be a reason for it?”

John nodded. ”I think I know the reason. I just don't know why you won't talk to me.”

”Don't be an idiot,” Sherlock said and shook his head. ”This is so dreadful.”

”What is?”

Sherlock glared at him, his eyes flashing the anger John felt coming off him in waves. ”You! Bringing me tea and soup and asking me whether I'm all right, wanting to talk about 'our situation'. There is nothing to talk about!”

John leaned forwards. ”I'm just trying to help.”

”Well, stop! I'm not your run-of-the-mill empath bitch!”

_**Shock** _

John felt Sherlock's, but also his own. The echo of Tommy's words sounded wrong coming from Sherlock, who usually took care with how he said things, chose his words with attention, made sure he sounded educated. The words froze them both for a moment. 

Sherlock clenched his jaw, his grey eyes hardening. ”You don't have to protect me or take care of me just because we merged.”

John chuckled and shook his head. ”I did the same before we merged.”

”Of course!” Sherlock snapped. “Because you're an anchor! It was all right then, but now, it's become unbearable.”

”Well, sorry but there's nothing we can do about it!”

”Don't pretend you didn't want this!”

John glared at him. ”Want ... I wanted this, then? Are you mad? Empaths start a merge!”

”That's what they tell you so you feel good about yourself, so you feel like someone chose you instead of you running after every piece of empath you can get to fulfil the stupid romantic notion of the perfect merge. It's pathetic.” 

John stared at him in disbelief. ”What is this about? Your masculinity?”

”It's about me not wanting this!” Sherlock shouted, slapping his palms on the kitchen table. ”And you letting it happen!” He got up, approaching John with his fists clenched. ”You were not supposed to be this. This wasn't supposed to happen. I never wanted this to happen.”

”Well, that makes two of us!”

They looked at each other for a long moment, then Sherlock turned away, his shoulders hunched and his fists still clenched. 

_**Misery, betrayal** _

John understood, better than Sherlock possibly assumed. This hadn't been his plan, either. His plan had been a wife and children and a merge under the right circumstances. 

If war had taught him one thing, though, it was that circumstances were rarely right. 

He took a deep breath. ”A bond can't be severed.”

”There must be a way,” Sherlock replied and went back to the kitchen table, to his blood under the microscope. ”I isolated the enzyme, I just need to ...” He closed his eyes. ”I just need to find a way.”

”Do you have any idea how long things like that can take?” John asked gently. 

Sherlock paused. ”As long as they must,” he answered and bent over the microscope.

***

_”Look at him,” Tommy said. ”Your little empath bitch.”_

_John refused to, keeping his eyes resolutely closed._

_”Look at him!”_

_John opened his eyes. Sherlock was staring straight at him and there were_

_**Terror, shock, betrayal** _

_and John wanted to calm him, wanted him to regain the clear head he usually possessed. The clear head that got them out of these situations. So he accepted Sherlock's feelings, let the presence nudging against his consciousness in._

_”Beg,” Tommy said._

_Sherlock stared into John's eyes._

_**Pain** _

_John felt dizzy, started to experience more than the strongest emotions Sherlock had right now. He noticed everything: the disgust Sherlock felt towards Tommy, the warmth of his coat, the triumph …_

_Sherlock kept staring at John, whispering, ”Please.”_

_”I can't hear you!” Tommy screamed._

_”Don't kill him, please!”, Sherlock roared._

_**Fury** _

_“Don't kill him,” he repeated and swallowed. ”Please.”_

_**Triumph underlying defeat** _

_Why triumph? Why?_

_Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John and his emotions were right there … confusing and loud, way too loud. John took a deep breath, let it out, calmed in the face of the enemy._

_Sherlock's shoulders slumped and he ducked his head and something … something was different ..._

_John barely heard the police barge into the room, barely realized that Tommy dropped the scalpel, barely felt himself falling sideways. There was too much emotion, Sherlock's relief and smugness and worry slotting into place with John's very similar feelings._

_Sherlock was above him suddenly, his lips forming John's name but he couldn't hear. He was overwhelmed and then, he was pretty sure that he passed out for a moment._

_When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was gone and a paramedic was leaning over him, her small hands probing around the wound at his hairline. He felt that Sherlock was there, though, somehow. It was more than the soldier in him being aware of a presence in the room, more than the unexplainable feeling humans got when they knew that a dear friend or family member was close by. It was knowledge – clear and solid – because he felt Sherlock's feelings, knew that he was shocked and disgusted and slightly panicked. It shouldn't be possible that he felt what Sherlock felt._

_An anchor's empathic ability was dormant … unless …_

_Sherlock stepped into his field of vision, a dark frown on his face and bewilderment in his bright eyes. The paramedic smiled at John. ”Would you like your merge to accompany you to hospital?” she asked._

_John registered that she must be an empath to be able to feel … he gasped. ”He's not my merge,” he croaked but the paramedic was distracted by Greg asking her whether John would be all right._

_John stared at Sherlock. Merges were implemented by empaths. He swallowed. ”What did you do?”_

_**Betrayal, disgust, fury** _

_Sherlock turned and left. John felt too weak to even try and follow._

_Merges were implemented by empaths … but they only worked if an anchor was open to them._

_”What did I do?”_

When John opened his eyes to his dimly lit bedroom, he saw Sherlock lingering in the door. He pulled the duvet higher and yawned sleepily. ”All right?”

”You're having nightmares,” Sherlock answered. ”It's distracting.”

John rolled his eyes. ”Sorry.”

Sherlock just stared at him for a minute, then he turned away and left.

***

“I could help … with the nightmares.” 

Sherlock's voice surprised John, startled him a little even. It had been quiet between them for about an hour now, Sherlock staring into his microscope and John reading answers to his newest blog entry. He cleared his throat to cover up any surprise in his expression, just to remember a moment later that Sherlock would be able to feel it anyway. So he just asked, ”You think?”

”It's distracting,” Sherlock said. ”The fear, the panic … I can't work when you're like that. So it would be beneficial to us both.”

John raised his eyebrows, quite used to Sherlock's back-handed offers to help. ”Right.”

It was quiet again, then Sherlock asked, ”Do you want me to help you?”

_**Uncertainty** _

That was a new one. John turned in his chair to look at Sherlock over his shoulder. ”You want to calm me down while I'm sleeping?”

”Through the merge,” Sherlock answered.

John clicked his laptop shut, turning a bit more towards the kitchen. ”You want to use the merge?”

”Am I being particularly complicated in my explanations?”

”You hate the merge.”

”That doesn't mean that I can't benefit from it,” Sherlock replied haughtily, turning back to the microscope.

John watched him for a few seconds, biting his lip to hide a grin. It wouldn't do to be smug now. Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, his lips turning down into a frown. 

_**Embarrassment on the verge of … regret** _

John made sure Sherlock saw the casual shrug he gave and settled back into his chair, picking up the newspaper he'd discarded an hour ago. ”Then do it. I don't mind.”

_**Relief** _

He smiled.

***

Things got better. 

John went to work and did the shopping and Sherlock went on cases and used up the milk. Then they started working together again, Sherlock inviting John with a tilt of his head and his eyebrows raised challengingly, the tentative hope John felt emanating from him too sweet to crush. 

Sherlock relocated his blood samples to St. Bart's and its superior equipment and came home every night talking about enzymes and proteins. John made tea and told him what he'd read on the internet about breaking merges with the use of drugs, distance or therapy. 

Sometimes, it got awkward between them – the intimacy of the merge being new to both of them – but most of the time, it was surprisingly all right. 

Sometimes, while they ate at Angelo's and laughed about the other patrons or the latest criminal they'd caught, it was easy to forget what had happened between them. Other times, empaths looked at them and gave an indulgent, warm smile or John was turned down by women because he was 'obviously' taken already. 

Sherlock spent less and less time with his blood samples and John decided he'd read everything there was to read. 

It was fine. 

***

Donovan gave them a brittle smile when they entered the sunny kitchen, her dark eyes meeting theirs over the body of the latest victim of a mean series of killings. “Look at you two,” she said teasingly, though with a sharp edge to her voice. ”All merged up and happy.” 

Just like Greg, Donovan was a neutral, and spent a lot of time these days commenting on their changed relationship with varying degrees of acid, as if she was trying to make them admit that they were a couple. It had started out as a game between her and Sherlock – both of them never hesitating to embarrass the other – but somehow, it had shifted into being a regular topic of conversation that involved John as well.

She shoved her hands in the pockets of her dark coat. ”I hear the sex is better when you're merged. Is that true then?”

John blushed, watching Sherlock walk around the body, his eyes scanning every detail of the dead woman and also everything in the room. John glanced around, absently thinking that he and Sherlock would never get their kitchen even remotely as orderly and shiny as this woman. ”I wouldn't know.” 

”Come on, John,” Donovan said, and she was a little more serious now, her voice lowering as she stepped closer. ”A merge is only possible when a certain form of intimacy is established.”

John narrowed his eyes at her in annoyance. ”Not every merge is romantic.”

”Oh, please!”

”I'm not gay!”

Donovan snorted. ”'Course.”

”John is right, Donovan,” Sherlock said. ”Not every merge is romantic, even though this country puts a very heavy insistence on the romantic aspects, as proven by the movie industry and even the fairy tales we tell our children: every empath has an anchor somewhere to merge with and live happily ever after. As a police officer, you should know that these notions are overly romantic at best. Abuse in merged couples happens just as often as in neutral or un-merged couples. Similarly, a high form of intimacy can mean a lot of things. In our case, it probably is founded on the fact that we live and work together and have the same interests, as well as the fact that John is a romantic and steadfast friend who invests a lot of emotions in his relationships, platonic or not, as proven by his horrid blog entries.” His lips twitched into a smile while Donovan just glared at him. “The fact that your sister is an empath while you remained a neutral bothers you, I can see that. It's no reason to disparage our merge, though.”

Donovan snorted. ”I think I'm mainly surprised anyone would _want_ to merge with _you_ of all people.”

Sherlock gave a sigh, as if he was tired of explaining the same thing again and again. ”I'm a powerful empath. As much as our values have moved forward and become less traditional, the thought of having a powerful empath under their thumb still attracts anchors, just as much as exerting power over a woman attracts many men. I know that you can speak from experience in that department at least. How long did your father abuse you before you stood up to him?”

The question was asked with genuine interest and John shook his head at Sherlock. 

Donovan just stared at him before she looked around quickly, ascertaining nobody was listening. All the PCs and forensics were busy with the body and the kitchen, though, so Donovan hissed, ”Don't you dare.”

Sherlock, of course, did dare. ”He hit you – chest, stomach, legs. Nowhere where people could see.”

John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder. ”That's enough.”

Donovan sneered. ”Yes, listen to your merge and shut up, freak.”

Sherlock didn't say anything immediately. Instead, he just looked at her. 

Donovan shifted and cleared her throat uncomfortably. John understood how she felt. Sherlock's piercing look wasn't always easy to withstand without twitching nervously at the very least. He took pity on her and stepped between them. ”So what do you say about the body, then, Sherlock?” he asked. ”I'm sure you've figured out by now-”

”Oh, I see!” Sherlock interrupted suddenly. “Not the father. Your boyfriend!”

It became very quiet all of a sudden and John cursed silently. 

Donovan's expression had hardened. Her voice was dangerously low when she said, ”Don't speak of things you know nothing about.”

”Hey,” John said, raising a calming hand in her direction. ”You made your point, okay?” He glared at Sherlock. ”Back off, this isn't okay.”

_**Sadness** _

It threw him. John looked up at Sherlock, into his unreadable face. There was no trace of the emotion he'd just felt, and yet ...

_**Sadness, betrayal** _

Sherlock was still staring at Donovan. ”In fact, I do have an idea.” John gaped and Donovan even more so. Sherlock just turned away and towards Greg, who'd been watching the exchange suspiciously from across the room. ”Grantley, I gave you enough time to figure this out by yourself. Should I help you?” 

“What did he mean by that?” Donovan asked. ”Was he making fun of me?”

John shook his head slowly, still stunned. ”No, in fact, he wasn't.”

***

A solved case always calmed the nervous energy Sherlock habitually emanated. The atmosphere in the flat became more relaxed, quiet and downright cosy. 

John loved the chases, the thrill of the danger, the riddles and mysteries. But he also liked the downtime. And even though this case had only been a small one and easily solved, the catching of the killer had turned out to be a bit more complicated. Sherlock had needed three days to track him down in Bristol. 

He'd curled up on the couch almost as soon as they'd entered Baker Street, not asleep but resting. John knew that he was in fact cataloguing the case in his mind palace, taking the time to go through all the facts again and filing them away where he'd be able to call upon them if necessary or deleting them from his mind when he thought them irrelevant. It was his post-case habit. 

John's post-case habit was stocking up their fridge and ordering Thai food. 

Coincidentally, their post-case habits took almost the same amount of time, so when John returned with the food and set down a plate for Sherlock on the kitchen table, Sherlock was already waiting for him there.

”All right?” John asked, handing Sherlock a fork.

”Of course,” Sherlock answered. ”Even though the case was ordinary at best.”

John chuckled. ”It took you days to figure out where he was hiding.”

”But I figured it out,” Sherlock replied haughtily. “The police didn't.”

John was pretty sure that Sherlock would try to outlive God to have the last word. He smiled in amusement at the pout that had settled over his features, making Sherlock look younger than he was. 

_**Irritation** _

John bit his lip to hide his grin.

”Stop that,” Sherlock said.

”What?” John asked innocently.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. ”Being so smug.”

John just shrugged, which irritated Sherlock only more. But he chose not to say anything about it, instead focussing on his food with deadly intent. 

They ate in companionable silence for a while. John was trying to figure out whether this was a good time to bring _it_ up. 

The thing that had happened when Sherlock and Donovan had argued a few days ago. 

On one hand, Sherlock wasn't one who talked about his past or about any personal matters, really. On the other hand, he was more malleable after a case and maybe – just maybe – their merge gave John a chance at getting through to him. He wasn't ashamed to admit that he was curious. Sherlock was never shaken, never admitted to weakness readily, especially not in front of Donovan or Anderson. John wasn't sure whether Sherlock had intended to let slip what he'd said. He'd thought a lot about Sherlock's words and expression and emotions while he'd talked to Donovan and he thought that he was on to something – something that would explain Sherlock's reluctance in accepting their merge. 

John cleared his throat. ”You know, I figured it out, I think.”

”What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, eating with quite an appetite now.

John pointed at him with his fork. ”You.”

_**Confusion** _

John raised his eyebrows. “Your issue with anchors.” 

_**Alarm** _

Sherlock froze. He looked at John carefully as if he was trying to determine how much he knew. John returned his gaze with his own steady stare. ”Who was it?”

Sherlock put his fork down. ”Who was what?”

”Sherlock.” 

He got up and strode into the lounge. John sighed, thinking that he'd tried at least and already giving up for now when Sherlock returned unexpectedly, hovering in the door. He had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dressing gown, his face serious and his blue eyes narrowed. ”In university,” he said slowly and licked his lips. ”I … fell. Hard.”

John leaned back in his chair, nodding encouragingly. ”Okay.”

Sherlock avoided his eyes, staring at John's plate. ”He was an anchor and he was … not a very good one.”

John had assumed exactly that. He winced. ”Did you-”

”We merged.”

”Why didn't you tell me? When I asked whether you're merged just after we met, why didn't you mention this?”

Sherlock hunched his shoulders, ducking his head. ”Because I'm not merged … anymore.”

John shook his head. ”That can't be. A merge can't be broken unless ...” He paused. ”Oh.”

Sherlock shrugged but John felt that he thought anything but casually about it. ”It's okay. It was long over by the time he died. The merge had weakened by then.” 

”You got away from him then?”

Sherlock gave a nod and came closer, sitting back down in his chair. ”I had help. Victor was a friend of mine, he was ...” Sherlock swallowed. ”... my only friend.”

John frowned, leaning forwards to be closer. ”You never mentioned him.”

”He moved away. Found a merge.” Sherlock bit his lip. “Our merge … I didn't want him to kill you. I wanted you to live. You were right from the start, I must have lost control.”

”It's okay, Sherlock.”

”No, it isn't.”

_**Sadness, anxiety** _

Sherlock's eyes met John's, silvery in the weak light of the kitchen lamp and more serious than John had ever seen them before. ”A merge is an over-idealized mirror image of what humanity wants their lives to be. They trust in something that's not tangible and put their feelings and their lives on the line for it when, in the end, it's bound to disappoint them.” 

John shook his head. ”Sherlock-” 

”I know because I _lived_ it. I thought I knew, I should have known better, but sentiment blinded me. I should have seen it, the way he kept controlling me even before we merged. I mistook it for him taking care of me. Caring _about_ me.” 

”Sherlock.” 

”Making me eat, making me sleep …” Sherlock shook his head and squared his shoulders, his jaw set. “I don't like being readable.”

John slid his chair closer to him, speaking with determination. “Sherlock, a merge is something natural and beautiful. Just because people perverted it doesn't make it bad.” 

Sherlock scoffed and didn't meet his eyes.

”Just think of it that way,” John continued. ”I don't like it either, but you're just as much in my head as I'm in yours. This isn't a one-way-street. This isn't me controlling you, this is just us knowing each other a little bit better.” Sherlock still refused to look at him and John gave a tired sigh. ”I heard that … distance can weaken a merge and apparently, it already worked for you once before. I mean ...” He swallowed, steeling himself for what he was about to say. “It's not as good as breaking it but we could … it's better than nothing.” He didn't want it. Sherlock wouldn't have to know that, though. John certainly wouldn't hold on to something that Sherlock felt uncomfortable with.

However, Sherlock looked positively alarmed at the idea and their merge thrummed with his anxiety and insecurity. ”That ...” He swallowed and took a deep breath. ”That won't be necessary, I think. We've … lived with it for this long. A bit longer won't matter.” He frowned at his own words a moment later.

_**Confusion … realisation** _

John smiled. ”Good. I … good.” He cleared his throat, swallowing the overly sweet relief that had flooded him at Sherlock's words. He would have never admitted to how much the thought of leaving had settled into his stomach like a lead weight. He chuckled. ”Nothing changed anyway. Between us. I mean, I will make you eat, I will make you sleep. It's what I did before the merge and I won't stop now.” He nodded at Sherlock. ”Just so you know.” Deciding that he'd said enough on the matter, John got up and took their plates to the sink, contemplating whether he wanted to do the dishes tonight or wait until tomorrow.

_**Apprehension** _

Sherlock's voice was oddly hesitant when he said, ”I will … continue looking for a way to break the merge, though.”

John knew that it was a test, that Sherlock was just trying to keep an emergency exit open for himself. That he was just trying to keep John at a distance even though they couldn't be any closer. Some anchors might have minded this, but John didn't. He knew about trust issues from personal experience, so he smiled. ”All right. You do that.” He wasn't sure what he would do should Sherlock ever find a way to break their merge or decide that distance was better for them after all … the lead weight settled into his stomach again like a knot and he felt a bit nauseous.

Sherlock gave a sharp nod. ”Cases will take priority, of course, but while this merge isn't as inconvenient as I thought at first … I still don't like it.”

_**Lie** _

”Of course,” John said, biting his lip to hide a relieved grin threatening to break out. The knot in his stomach didn't disappear entirely, but this one emotion – this one tangible proof that Sherlock was trying to keep face while feeling something completely different – was enough to give him hope. 

They were getting there.

Sherlock frowned at him. ”You're smug again. Why?”

”Am I?” John asked, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

”Yes.” 

”Well,” John replied, deciding to leave the dishes for later. ”You would know.”

 

END  
11/14


End file.
